The Andamans:
A Man-Made Disaster
By M. Rajshekhar
09 May, 2005
Countercurrents.org
Over
the past month, reams have been written about the crisis facing the
Andaman and Nicobar islands. However, an important point has been missed.
Even if the tsunami hadn't lashed it, this sun-soaked, rain-drenched
archipelago, recommended by Lonely Planet for its "unique fauna,
lush forests, white sandy beaches and exquisite coral", would have
faced a bleak future.
Unlike the tsunami,
this is a man-made disaster. Over the past 54 years, the population
on the islands has soared. Rising from just 30,000 in 1951 to a staggering
480,000 now. As the population has grown, the island's water problem
has worsened. Today, households in Port Blair get water once every two
days, for 30 minutes. Three summers ago, water supplies ran so low that
the local administration, the largest employer by far in this Union
Territory, took the unprecedented step of granting mass leave to its
staff, hoping they would return to the mainland, leaving more water
for those who stayed back.
In the middle of
December, I spent a week in the Andamans. What I found was that the
ills of the islands went beyond a simple water shortage. In this third
most biodiverse region in the country after the Himalayas and the Western
Ghats, forests are receding, fish catches are falling, croplands are
going barren faster. As for the tribals, the less said, the better.
It is simplistic to blame all on overpopulation. Ultimately, the islands
are in trouble because of poor development.
In the weeks and months ahead, the local administration will rebuild
the islands. This is, perhaps, a second chance. A chance when old mistakes
must not be repeated.
The Andamans have
historically been sparsely populated. In the beginning, there were only
the native aborigines. Even after the British colonised the islands
in 1858, the population did not surge immediately. The 1901 Census counted
24,649 people there. By 1941, there were just about 9,000 more. During
the Second World War, Japan annexed the islands. After Independence,
aware of the islands' strategic value, the Indian government began settling
mainlanders in the islands. And the population started expanding fast.
The government gave
land to ex-servicemen and emigrants from East Pakistan. To help in administration,
it exported bureaucrats and clerks from the mainland. Mind you, it was
not easy to lure people to the islands. Tropical paradise or not, the
isles are two to four sea-tossed days away from the mainland. The government
had to dole out goodies. Transport to the islands was subsidised. Education
and healthcare were free. The settlers were promised that in an emergency
they would be airlifted to the mainland, gratis. Around the same time,
local contractors brought in cheaper migrant labourers. Most of them
never went back because it made economic sense for them.
While waiting to
board the MV Akbar, one of the ships plying between Kolkata and Port
Blair, I chatted with a fellow passenger, an electrician from Behrampore
in West Bengal. He had been working in the islands for 10 years. At
Blair, he was making Rs 180 a day. Back home, he could make about Rs
70. Once on the islands, many such labourers would get themselves registered
as locals and eventually hunker down.
By 1961, the population
had reached 63,548. Three decades later, it had increased more than
four times to 280,661. And then, in the last decade, it moved into overdrive.
A senior official at the Planning Commission's Island Development Authority
(IDA) pegs the islands' population at 480,000 now. In effect, the influx
that happened over three decades earlier happened in just one decade.
And this overloaded mass is huddled into just 38 of the 500 islands
dotting this lazily-curving archipelago.
The local administration
says there aren't as many people on the island. We'll come to that contradiction
later.
The administration
has a reason to fret about the number - a lot hinges on it. In the mid-1980s,
the IDA, whose recommendations weigh in when the Union government gives
out the subsidies, pegged the archipelago's carrying capacity at 450,000.
(The carrying capacity of a land mass estimates the supply of resources
like water and cropland, and divides that by the desired per capita
consumption to arrive at a sustainable population.) And the IDA suggested
that the build-up be gradual. "The islands were supposed to hit
that number by 2011," says the IDA official.
The islands have
crossed that mark seven years in advance. And its impact on the land
has been jarring.
In 2004, three students,
Reshmi Nair from Kolkata's Indian Institute of Social Welfare and Business
Management, and Venkat Ramanujam Ramani and Yachna Srivastava from Mumbai's
Tata Institute of Social Sciences (TISS) studied the impact of human
habitation on Neil, a small island 37 km north-east of Blair.
Till 1967, Neil
was uninhabited, covered by virgin forest. That year, the first settlers
arrived. Seeing the size of the island, the administration settled just
98 families of about 650 people here. But then, when the settlers were
left to themselves, they pulled their relatives from the mainland. The
2001 Census counted 2,868 people on the islands, but the local police
outpost estimated the population even higher, at 4,450. Whichever the
correct number, they were living on a land no larger than that capable
of housing 650.
With most of these
people involved in agriculture, the settlers' villages and cropland
grew to cover 1,216 hectares out of the island's 1,890 hectares, up
from 750 in 1967. Continuous cultivation robbed the land of its nutrients.
Farming, the students found, was no longer possible without fertilisers.
Due to demand for more farmland, forests were cut down. Since it was
the forests that recharged the groundwater, the two natural streams
and the groundwater in the island dried up. Contractors dredged up from
among the most extensive and diverse coral reefs in the country and
used it in road construction. "Since fishes are found in the highest
density in the shallows, around the corals, their numbers dwindled.
So the fishermen's catch has fallen," says Sarang Kulkarni, a marine
biologist studying corals on the islands.
This story is being
repeated on every inhabited island in the archipelago. A couple of years
ago, while conducting a survey on the islands' biodiversity, Samir Acharya,
the chain-smoking, cynical convenor of the leading local NGO, SANE (Saving
Andaman and Nicobar Ecology), was surprised when he couldn't find any
rice field that was over 25-30 years old. With the soil of their older
fields spent, farmers had hacked out new ones from the forest.
Overpopulation isn't
the only thing to be blamed here; other factors are at play. The first
is inappropriate development coloured by a continental mindset. The
other is the hijacking of development goals by corruption and petty
politics.
At first, farmers
started growing vegetables and paddy; both made heavy demands that the
tropical soil couldn't bear. It's only now that farmers on Neil have
started switching to less water-intensive crops like areca nuts and
coconuts.
The mainlanders'
mindset also favoured big projects - like dams and building materials
better suited for the mainland. Concrete trumped timber as the chief
construction material on the islands. Both were terrible calls. The
first, because this area lies on a faultline. The second, because concrete
needs sand, which in this case, was dug up from the local beaches. And
that triggered another unhappy chain reaction.
To see the impact
of the sand mining, I travelled one noon to the gateway of the Mahatma
Gandhi Marine National Park in Wandoor, one and a half hours west of
Blair. At first glance, the beach here will score high on any parameter.
The colours are striking. The sand is an impossible shade of white.
The exposed corals are dark enough to pass for rocks. At regular intervals
lie tree trunks, bleached white by a long exposure to sun and tide.
The sky itself is a rich blue. In the distance, dark green islands float
on an azure sea. Wandoor is a rhapsodic vision of a tropical paradise.
But first impressions
can mislead. The story this beach in South Andaman had to tell was more
cautionary than hymnal to nature. Right till the 1990s, sand was trucked
away from here for use in construction. That resulted in unintended
effects. The first to go were the trees. Washing higher up the shore,
the waves toppled them. When the waves also threatened the beachfront
road, the administration erected a wall - using, ironically, sand from
the same beach. But this stopped the waves from depositing the sediments
they carried, sand particles and the like, at the end of their glide
up the beach. These particles drifted down, settled on the corals, and
killed them. The fish population fell. Local fishermen are now sailing
out for 3-4 hours to net their daily catch; earlier they used to catch
all they wanted within 30 minutes.
By the way, this
sand should not even be used for construction. Unlike sand from the
mainland, the one from these islands is just 45 per cent silica. The
rest is crushed coral, seashells and the like. Also, being saline, it
corrodes the steel scaffolding of buildings. No wonder buildings in
the Andamans die within an average of 30 years of construction.
But the starkest
example of mainland thinking is the Andaman Trunk Road (ATR). The ATR's
340-odd kilometres connect four islands - winding northwards from South
Andaman, it links Baratang, Middle Andaman and North Andaman. Before
it came up, locals used to rely on steamers. It was an imperfect arrangement,
insist the ATR's supporters. According to them, the road connects the
towns regardless of the weather.
Early one morning,
I took a bus ride on the most disputed stretch of the ATR - the part
connecting Blair and Baratang. This is the stretch that cuts through
the Jarawa Tribal Reserve. The only primary forest in the South Andaman,
primeval dense tropical forests that have been never logged, was inside
the Jarawa Reserve. Till we reached the reserve, signs of mankind were
never too far away. We passed farmlands, secondary forests, and new
buildings of cement.
The ATR is where
the debate on development gets interesting. At Baratang, thanks to the
road, an unorganised tourism industry had cropped up. A few dozen shacks
were selling cigarettes, food and coconuts. Tamil migrants were running
tours to the local beach, a local 'mud volcano', and limestone caves.
It was a good business, the driver informed. He and his brothers were
earning Rs 100 a day.
On the islands,
development has involved tradeoffs. The road had been good for these
Tamil immigrants, but catastrophic for the Jarawas and their jungle.
Jarawa youngsters have begun begging by the roadside for biscuits, alcohol,
gutka and other stuff. Eventually, worried about the impact of the road,
Acharya and Kalpvriksh, a Pune-based NGO campaigning for the rights
of native dwellers, filed a public interest litigation. In May 2002,
the Supreme Court instructed the Union Territory government to close
down this stretch of the ATR within three months. It's, of course, still
open.
Two years after
the ruling, the territory's government appealed to the court to reconsider
the order. V.V. Bhat, chief secretary, Andaman and Nicobar, says: "That
petition is yet to come up for hearing. In the meantime, we have set
regulations in place to regulate the traffic. Traffic is now allowed
to run only between certain times of the day and vehicles run as convoys."
It's not clear how
the territory's government avoided implementing the order in the two
intervening years. I am not even sure if the road is needed. A couple
of years ago, another TISS student, Richa Dhanju, studied the traffic
on the ATR. She found two things. One, most of the locals still preferred
the steamers, as they were cheaper and faster. Two, nearly 65 per cent
of the people using the road were bureaucrats and tourists. During the
recent relief operations, supplies were despatched by boats because
the road had cracked. Bad weather or not, there haven't been any accidents
with the steamers in all these years, comments Acharya of SANE.
In the bus, a tourist
is not convinced of overpopulation in the islands. How can there be
overpopulation in an area with so much forest? True, we are too anthropocentric
in our outlook and insist on man's primacy over the rest of the natural
kingdom. Having to choose between the livelihood of a family and the
extinction of, say, a turtle species, is a no-brainer for some. And
that same logic seemingly extends to tug-of-land between the settlers
and the so-called uncivilised local tribesmen and the area's flora and
fauna.
Yet, excessive anthropocentrism
might be fatal. As Neil and Wandoor show, islands are very fragile.
Given their finite resources, everything exists in a delicate equilibrium.
When that is disrupted, the results are quick to show. When the tsunami
struck, the islands fringed with intact corals and mangroves were not
as severely affected as the ones without. This fragility makes the need
for sustainable development all the more important. How does one ensure
that the threshold stocks of soil quality, forestland, etc. are maintained
even in the face of rising numbers and affluence?
It's not that the
government, which employs 86 per cent of those working in the organised
sector, isn't fighting the perils of unplanned development at its own
doorstep. The per capita economic output of this Union Territory has
stagnated - what (at Rs 12,901) was twice the national average in 1981-82,
was just 20 per cent higher (at Rs 15,703) in 2001-02. A visit to the
Employment Exchange at Blair revealed that between 3,000 and 4,000 people
submit their resumes every year. Of them, just 600-700 land a job.
To address unemployment,
the government has identified three industries it wants to boost - tourism,
high-value agriculture and fisheries. The first two of these three,
ironically, are going to be hobbled by the water shortage.
The water problem,
the Andaman Public Works Department (APWD) told me, would be fixed once
the height of the dam on Dhanikari Creek was upped by 5 metres. The
forest cover, the administration insisted, was still 86 per cent. Aerial
photographs by the National Remote Sensing Agency, however, suggest
that it's much lower. But to the island authorities, what we see is
apparently not what they have.
But the authorities
were at their dodgiest when quizzed on the issue of overpopulation.
I began to understand
why, when, a few days after coming to Blair, I met the former BJP MP
from the islands, Bishnu Pada Ray. According to him, there is no need
to curb migration yet. He said: "Migrants are not coming to the
islands any more; people are leaving." He added that the islands
could easily accommodate another 100,000.
Oddly, Census numbers
support Ray. The 2001 Census counted 356,152 people on the islands.
The IDA number was a good third higher. Other data supported the IDA
view. The local office of the Shipping Corporation agreed that their
ships were always coming in full, and going out half empty. Numbers
from the port authority corroborated this.
To resolve the matter,
I called the local civil supplies department. How many people had their
names on ration cards in 2001? About 370,000, said the department. Every
settler doesn't have a ration card. Migrant workers won't get ration
cards. The actual population, thus, was bound to be even higher than
370,000. It was just what the three students had found at Neil. There,
too, the Census numbers were lower than what the local police maintained.
There is a lot of
political opposition to stopping the influx. So much so that it has
derailed a Supreme Court order. As a part of the same 2002 ruling on
the ATR, the Court had ordered the administration to introduce an inner
line permit regime. But migration continues unabated to this day.
The reasons aren't
too difficult to fathom. Both Ray and the current MP, Manoranjan Bhakta
of the Congress, hail from Bengal. They account for roughly equal amounts
of vote. It is the DMK that decides the MP. And so, the three parties
encourage migration from West Bengal and Tamil Nadu.
On this overloaded
archipelago, development has been evolving by chance, as the stepchild
of decisions made for private gain. Take the water problem. To resolve
it, the APWD plans to raise the Dhanikari dam's height. By doing that,
said G.C. Khattar, chief engineer of the APWD, water needs for the next
10-15 years would be met. On a longer term, the APWD plans to build
a giant wall at Flat Bay, where a creek meets the sea. Over time, this
would become an artificial fresh water lake in the sea. The cost for
raising the dam's height: Rs 100 crore; that for the Flat Bay scheme:
Rs 350 crore.
There was a cheaper
alternative the APWD wasn't considering. The islands get rainfall around
the year - from the south-west and the north-east monsoons. On my way
back from Wandoor, I stopped at a diggi, a traditional rainwater harvesting
structure. Its water was clean. In contrast, the water being piped by
the APWD to my guesthouse was rust brown in colour. And yet, the organisation
had not even studied the potential for rainwater harvesting in the islands.
It's now clear that
a large quake will decimate even the stoutest of sea walls. In the days
after the tsunami, the islands were rocked by aftershocks ranging between
5.5 to 6 on the Richter scale. In Nicobar, ironically, this brought
down the remaining concrete structures; the wood structures survived.
Development is for
the long term; but the logic driving it in the Andamans has been short-term.
The results have been predictable. Musharraf Ahmed, an auto-rickshaw
driver, remembers the summer of 2002 vividly. That year, the rains came
late and water levels behind the Dhanikari dam dwindled. For two months
that year, Ahmed's family got 6-8 buckets of water - once every three
days.
Back in Delhi, I
met M.N. Murty, professor at the Institute of Economic Growth. He wasn't
too worried about the water situation. Answers could be found, he said.
What concerned him more was the outlook for sustainable development.
Is it possible to make people better off while ensuring that the threshold
stocks of resources are maintained?
The islands are
just a metaphor for a larger issue. The outlook for sustainable development
is dim across India. As population is rising, everyone is placing more
demands on the land. And short-sighted development is as much of a concern
on the mainland. All this hasn't come about for want of proper regulation.
India, said Murty, has comprehensive legislation encouraging sustainability.
Yet, we are unable to make much headway. That's partly because monitoring
and enforcement costs are very high, and partly because of corruption.
Tax disincentives push companies towards cleaner technology. They can
either pay a tax for polluting, or install cleaner technology. But corruption
offers another alternative. Formal regulation founders between the two.
A tiny ray of hope
comes from informal regulation. Local communities are getting active
- protesting, lobbying, filing PILs. This is also visible in the islands.
Four months ago, a forest department team went to Mannarghat, a village
in South Andaman, to harvest wood. The villagers did not let them. This
is our water resource, they said, you cannot touch the forest.
But even that can
only go a distance. The administration needs to act on the wisdom that's
staring them in the face and the orders it has been handed.
I remember the first
island I saw as MV Akbar neared the Andamans. Densely forested, it seemed
to be hanging low over the sea. On one side, a flat lick of land jutted
out, much lower than the rest of the island. On it grew three palms.
It made a striking silhouette. On that darkening evening, as the islands
floated by, they seemed small and fragile. I hope we remember that.
In life, we don't
always get a second chance.